


He's Got the Whole World in His Hands

by Villain_Complex (Random_Fandom_writer)



Series: Merlin Rewritten: God AU [4]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark Merlin (Merlin), Druids, Gen, God!Merlin, Magic, Minor Character Death, Powerful Merlin (Merlin), Pre-Season/Series 01, Prophecy, The Old Religion (Merlin), emrys - Freeform, he's not actually evil, just slightly dark merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28686687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Fandom_writer/pseuds/Villain_Complex
Summary: The Purge has only just begun, but the Gods concede it has been long enough. Too long, yet it will be decades until it comes to pass. Despite the magnitude of Their power, They are in no position to defy Albion's destiny.So until then, They will build. Build Their strength, build Their weapons.Their weapon:Emrys.
Series: Merlin Rewritten: God AU [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677964
Comments: 15
Kudos: 85





	He's Got the Whole World in His Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in February and have only just finished it. Enjoy.
> 
> HEED THIS WARNING: There is some gore, but I'm unsure if it's deserving enough of a "graphic description of violence" tag, considering it's only a short paragraph. So here is your warning. I trust you all to look after yourselves, and be careful while reading. I don't want to hurt anybody :))
> 
> Title taken from "Feed the Machine" by Poor Man's Poison, which is a great song. Check it out!

The Isle of the Blessed. A sacred place. Centre of the Old Religion. 

In ruins. 

The walls fall down.

_Crumblingcrumblingcrumbling._

The same walls that'd once buzzed with life, and death, and magic. Pure, raw, magic that hummed and sang and _coiledcoiledcoiled_ through the very earth, engraving runes and rituals into stone. The stone that stood high. 

Crumbling.

The Purge has only just begun, but the Gods concede it has been long enough. Too long, yet it will be decades until it comes to pass. Despite the magnitude of Their power, They are in no position to defy Albion's destiny. 

So until then, They will build. Build Their strength, build Their weapons. 

Their _weapon._

As the Gods build, the people whisper. Whisper words of magic and rumor. Of hope and prosperity, a beacon of light amidst the dark. They know their savior is coming. They know something is coming. 

They do not know it is more of a some _one._

And on the island of Avalon, the Gods create.

They pour Their power, morphing and melding it together. _Entwiningentwiningentwining,_ until it contorts into something synonymous to the Gods Themselves. Maybe even something more. 

Magic of the purest form. Unrefined, uncontained, unable to _be_ contained. Pulsing and thriving, feeding off of the energy of the elements.

The Gods name It Emrys. Immortal, everlasting. Emrys. 

They smile, full of pride at what They have accomplished, and breathe sighs of relief as the Earth tilts even. Balanced. As it should be.

Emrys will save them all. They know It will. They know. 

***

Almost immediately, Emrys takes a vessel. 

It takes the form of a young boy, no more than sixteen summers. A gangly boy, with sharp limbs and pale skin. High cheekbones, and dark hair. A strange, almost ethereal beauty He is. 

He is hypnotic. Captivating in any form in a way that hardly relies on looks, and more so on the aura that surrounds Him. An aura of gold edged with vibrant blues. Blue like the sea. Deep, dark, dangerous, though no colour can compare to His gold. Exuberant, safe, yet so very dangerous. The gold gives a warning. Threatening to _coilcoilcoil,_ coil so tight around the trachea until their face turns blue and their lungs ignite with fire. Until they claw and flail, and plead so desperately for release, for breath and air. Until tears of salt and water spring from their eyes, the eyes that beg so dearly. Until they fall still, and the gold lets go. Setting them gently upon the ground for the earth to reclaim. The blue and gold that work so well as one.

But Emrys is smart.

And Emrys is meant to be underestimated.

So He hides His aura under layers of skin, and tilts His chin at the ones who scoff at the supposed great Emrys. Who shake their heads and roll their eyes at the boy who claims to be their saviour. Unknowing of the power that lay underneath. 

***

Few truly know of the power He holds. And even smaller are the amount who believe the truths He speaks. It is only the Druids who are able to sense it- despite concealment. There is something about the Druids.

He trains under Aglain- a leader of a small Druid tribe. Learns their ways, their customs, their virtues, and partakes in all the ceremonies and celebrations. Yet when they beg to tattoo the mark of the triskelion onto His chest, He declines. Emrys is not meant to be amongst the Druids.

He leaves, ignoring the cries of the Druids as they lose what was never theirs to keep.

Emrys belongs to no one. 

***

He seeks out the High Priestess Nimueh back at the Isle of the Blessed for guidance. 

She teaches, and He learns. So quickly it is frightening. Spell after spell, ritual, and rune. Emrys dishes them out with a flash of gold and the twitch of a hand as if He was born knowing. And maybe He was.

Nimueh marvels at the show of power. Nimueh marvels and Nimueh observes. 

And in His eyes, she sees a subtle weakness. 

A spark of _somethingsomethingsomething,_ in the frame of His face. A flicker of naivete amongst the gold of His iris. 

She praises Avalon for their one, crucial mistake.

They've made Emrys too human.

***

Emrys knows immediately of her intentions. He can practically smell it on her skin, the lies, the sin. It is both disgusting and amusing. Repelling, even as it pulls Him right back in. It is quite enjoyable to watch the sorceress scheme. 

Emrys will stay, and let Nimueh think she has the upper hand, playing her like a puppet, and wrapping strings and ropes around her limbs loosely, to be tightened at the moment it turns too late.

***

Nimueh places Him on a pedestal, crooning over His greatness and the world they will build together.

Emrys smiles from atop His throne of bones. Smiles in secret mirth at the High Priestess who plans for the world she wants, rather than the world that will come to be. Smiles at the woman who thinks only for herself, wrapping a rope around His neck like a hunting hound and telling Him to fetch. Unknowing it is her who is tied as she is slowly coiled ever so _tightlytightlytightly_ around Emrys' finger.

Emrys cannot be contained.

***

Emrys sits upon His throne of bones, a spectator. Nimueh is making a deal, she likes to make deals.

He does not interrupt. 

A young Druid girl clenches her fists determinedly, her glare never once wavering. It is her second time on the Isle this very same week.

_"What have you done?"_

"You've gotten what you wished for," Nimueh drawls with a smirk. "Do not blame me, it is not _my_ doing." Emrys decided not to point out how wrong that statement is. Nimueh knew just what she was doing. "the Old Religion demands balance."

"My brother is _dying_ because of you," the Druid cries. She looks over to Emrys, voice heavy with desperation. "Emrys, do something. _Please."_

Nimueh snarls, and He has to hold Himself back from shouting out and reeling her back in. "You have no right to demand anything from Emrys." The Druid cowers under the heat of her anger, eyes flickering to Emrys in a silent plea for mercy. 

Emrys is indeed a gracious God.

But not without a price.

 _"Nim_ ueh.” His voice sinks through the tense atmosphere, dissolving the invisible tethers in warm water and honey. “You know I prefer not to involve myself in your affairs. But _surely_ , you can make _one_ exception."

Nimueh looks appalled. "My lord. Surely you of all people would know. A life for a life."

Time goes funny.

Emrys slithers from His seat, stalking towards where the High Priestess stands, stock still. Slowly. Slowlyslowlyslowly, threateningly, like He is stalking an animal, and at the moment, Nimueh is nothing but prey.

He smiles.

He smiles a smile with too many teeth, and pulls on the rope around her neck.

She jostles, jerking forward and falling to the empty space at His feet, allowing Emrys to mold her like malleable clay. Nimueh writhes in his hold, confusion and fear flickering across her face.

“Indeed I do,” He states, low and gravely. 

Nimueh swallows heavily. “My Lord?”

"Yes." His eyes flash in careful consideration. "A life for a life."

And then His teeth are _sinkingsinkingsinking_ into _hothothot_ flesh, and ripping at her throat. Tearing apart bone and tissue and spitting it onto the floor. Nimueh chokes on a cry, blood bubbling at her lips and spilling over the edge of her mouth. She gurgles, tipping forward into the ground, twitching once, twice, until finally falling still. 

He turns to the Druid, mouth coated with gore, and eyes swimming in a mixture of blue and gold. He looks at her warmly. "Your brother is waiting for you. It appears he’s made quite the miraculous recovery. A true miracle." 

The girl doesn't budge, eyes glassy, almost unseeing. She looks just as lifeless in her shock and horror as the slowly cooling body upon the grass. 

"Go on now."

She flees.

The world tilts, balanced.

A life saved, a life sacrificed. 

* * *

Emrys meets with the Gods of Avalon at the lake.

"Your time is now, Emrys," They speak in unison. "Go. Go to Camelot, and head forth into what you have been born to do."

***

Somewhere, along the border of Camelot and Essiter, a woman gains a child.

He is included in no past memory, but it is rather collectively decided upon that He has always been here. Yes, quite assuredly He has always lived in the small village of Ealdor.

The boy named Merlin.

Destiny can now begin.


End file.
